


If You Think You've Won

by deepsix



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dream criminals do it unethically, Face-Fucking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/pseuds/deepsix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to put a man to sleep when you can't bribe the professionals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Think You've Won

**Author's Note:**

> A [dream_holiday](http://dream-holiday.livejournal.com) pinch hit, written for [essouffle](http://essouffle.livejournal.com).

The address that Eames gives the cab driver is the same one in Holland Park, and Arthur breathes a little easier, even if Eames seems completely unconcerned about it. He ignores Arthur for the duration of the cab ride from the bar, choosing instead to talk to the driver about soccer even as he slides his palm over Arthur's thigh. It should be sleazy, the way Eames doesn't even look at him as he does it, but his touch is hot, and if anything, Arthur spreads his legs more just to let him get closer.

It doesn't matter. Arthur's not exactly here for the conversation.

And maybe it's not how he'd imagined the job going, but he didn't get where he is today by being inflexible.

Eames doesn't speak to him again until they get inside the apartment. The kitchen is exactly as it was earlier in the day, right down to the details: the cereal box still sitting on the counter; the stack of unopened mail sitting on one of the barstools. Arthur's willing to bet the rest of the place is untouched as well; he'd have known if Eames had come back.

"Can I get you anything?" Eames asks. It's not much, as opening lines go, but it's almost sweet in how unassuming it is.

In the end, Eames gets them each a glass of water, and he drains his while Arthur sips at his own. Arthur watches him over the rim of his glass, but Eames seems to take his caution at face value, as sincere nervousness rather than Arthur's very real concern that he won't be able to take Eames if it comes down to it. Maybe Eames thinks Arthur isn't in the habit of sleeping with men he barely knows. Maybe Eames thinks he thinks he's really drunk.

It's hard to say.

What Arthur does know is that there are two exits from Eames' apartment -- one the way they came in, and the other out the back, through the window in the bedroom. It's only one floor down to the shared yard that connects with a laneway that, in turn, connects with the main road, and there could be a car waiting for him in minutes if he needs it. And he might -- the nature of the job means he's unarmed -- though he did leave a handgun tucked in with the PASIV device -- but that's assuming Eames doesn't cop to him first. Theoretically, he could be dead before this one even gets out of the gate.

Of course, the other thing he knows for certain is that he's got the element of surprise on his side.

Eames doesn't bother trying to make small talk with him. He takes the glass out of Arthur's hand and puts it on the counter, and he's already leaning into Arthur's space when he asks, "all right?"

Eames doesn't wait for a reply before he kisses him.

Eames' mouth is soft and warm, and there's something hesitant in the way he kisses, like he's waiting for something. He puts a hand on Arthur's waist, fingers coming up to settle under Arthur's waistcoat, where he presses at Arthur's hip through the fabric of his shirt. He kisses slowly -- no tongue -- and there's something strangely careful about it, the way he slants his body toward Arthur, not touching, but just close enough to be suggestive.

That's about all it takes.

The kiss grows hotter as Arthur presses against him, pushing Eames back against the counter in turn. Eames trails his fingers up Arthur's side, and Arthur angles his mouth more acutely against his, opening to lick at the swell of Eames' upper lip, his teeth, the tip of his tongue. Eames' hands feel hot through Arthur's clothes, and Eames touches him with the kind of purpose that suggests he knows exactly what he's looking for.

Eames shifts against him, then, spreading his legs so that Arthur can move between them. There's a click of belt buckles, and Eames pulls him closer, his thighs pressing against Arthur's. Eames is half-hard already, and something about the pressure of his cock against Arthur's makes Arthur's breath catch in his chest.

He pulls his mouth away from Eames', turns his head away. His pulse is already racing.

Eames presses mouth against Arthur's jaw instead, his breath hot. "Shall we move this somewhere else?" he murmurs.

"Yes," Arthur says, breathless. If he's perfectly honest with himself, his nerves are no longer strictly professional.

Eames takes him to the bedroom by the hand, and Arthur doesn't even have time feel condescended to before Eames says, "Take off your clothes."

He's smirking as he says it, but he's also already unbuttoning his shirt.

They kiss as they undress, hands bumping between them as they remove their clothes. Arthur fumbles with the buttons on his waistcoat and on his shirt, and it would go faster if they just got on with it, but there's something about Eames' _mouth_ \-- and when they're naked, Eames guides him down to the bed without even breaking contact.

Eames climbs half on top of him, slotting a thigh between Arthur's legs, his cock pressing against Arthur's hip. His hand finds Arthur's cock, and Arthur's head falls back at the sensation. He's already hard, and Eames seems to know just how to touch him, stroking up his length as he presses Arthur down against the mattress, and the rough heat of his hand sends shocks of arousal curling through Arthur's body.

It's so hot between them. Arthur feels sluggish under Eames' touch, too turned on to do more than cling to the sharp curves of Eames' shoulders, pushing into Eames' hand. But Eames only presses against him, his cock damp and hard against Arthur's thigh, and Arthur's not sure he's noticed.

"Do you like this?" Eames asks.

"Yes," says Arthur. He slides one hand down Eames' arm, feeling the play of Eames' muscles as he strokes him. It's slow and sure and hard, and from the way Eames ruts against him, Arthur suspects he might like it just as much.

Eames finds his mouth again, then, and kisses him open-mouthed and wet before trailing his lips, still slick with their shared saliva, along Arthur's cheek. "Do you want me to suck your cock?" he asks, directly into Arthur's ear, and Arthur feels it like a hot shiver down his spine. His cock twitches in Eames' hand.

It's hardly a fair question.

" _Yes_ ," Arthur says, but Eames is already pulling away. He feels Eames smile against his skin as he moves down Arthur's body, and there's something relaxed in the look Eames gives him, confident as he kisses down Arthur's stomach, the stubble on his chin scraping against Arthur's skin. Arthur can't help but watch.

The wet heat of Eames' mouth is phenomenal. There's nothing hesitant about the way he closes his lips around Arthur's cock, or the way he slides down, his mouth tight and wet and shockingly lush. Eames even lets him lift his hips, and Arthur lets out a long, shuddering breath as he pushes into Eames' mouth. He twists his fingers in the sheets, and he feels something twist uncontrollably, low in his stomach, as Eames sucks him, Eames' tongue a mindless pressure on the underside of his cock.

It's fucking perfect, and he wants to fuck Eames' mouth like nothing else.

He slides his hands into Eames' hair instead, curling his fingers at the base of Eames' skull. He wants to hold Eames just where he is, and make Eames look at him even as he watches the way his cock slides in Eames' mouth -- the way he shoves his cock down Eames' throat, forcing Eames to open for him. He wants Eames to look at him, and to know how fucking wild he is for it, and to be unable to do anything but just take it.

He hardly realizes how close he is until he _is_ , until he's thrusting his hips with a harsh kind of desperation, fast and rough into the soft swell of Eames' throat. And he hardly realizes that he's moaning until it's torn out of him, because Eames lets him, because it's so filthy, so wet, so tight -- and he shouldn't, but he can't help coming that way, messy and slick in Eames' mouth.

He's still gasping when Eames crawls back up the bed and kisses him, Eames' lips still slick with saliva and tasting of his come. He presses against Eames as they kiss, feeling the damp plane of Eames' stomach, the jut of Eames' cock -- and Eames pushes back, hooking his ankle around Arthur's. It feels incongruously intimate for the situation, but Arthur lets him curl around him anyway. He even lets Eames draw his hand down to his cock, and Eames is still hot, still hard, still leaking, and Arthur closes his fingers around him.

He brings Eames off as they kiss, and Eames trembles as he does it, rutting hard into Arthur's hand, gasping sharply against Arthur's mouth. It's almost tender the way he does it, and Arthur closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the wide-eyed way Eames watches him as he comes, spilling hot over Arthur's skin.

Eames falls asleep on him afterwards, with one leg tucked between Arthur's. He looks appealing even in sleep, his features slack, his body warm and relaxed and not at all dangerous -- and Arthur wonders about different circumstances.

Instead, he counts to three hundred before getting up.

There's a sedative in his pocket, a PASIV stashed in the hallway, and an entire industry's worth of secrets just waiting to be stolen.


End file.
